Even odds

Being male and black in Oakland means being about as likely to be killed as to graduate from high school ready for college

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Being male and black in Oakland means being about as likely to be killed as to graduate from high school ready for college

Two teens face the odds in Oakland

Story by Jill Tucker and photos by Lacy Atkins

It was the first Monday in May, and Thomas Logwood was heading to class.There were just six weeks until the end of the school year at Castlemont High in Oakland, and every week seemed to bring another milestone for the 17-year-old senior. His last track meet was coming up. In a few days, he'd attend prom.

And there was the moment he'd strived after for four years, the reward for all the work achieving a 3.5 grade point average and a place near the top of his class of 140: graduation.

About the series

African American boys in Oakland are more likely to miss school, be suspended, not graduate on time or be incarcerated than any other students.

Over the past decade, the number of African American men killed on the streets of Oakland nearly matched the number who graduated from its high schools ready to attend a state university.

Against this backdrop of failure and death, school officials became the first in the nation to create a department with the sole focus of helping African American males while sponsoring a charter school specifically for black boys.

Over the past year, The Chronicle documented the fear, stuggles and loss that African American males face in Oakland and the city's attempt to address them.

It had not been easy. Nothing was in East Oakland. For a young black man like Thomas, just surviving the crime and poverty that permeated his daily life was an achievement.

In this city, boys of his race are more likely to miss school; be suspended; graduate late, if at all; or be incarcerated than their white, Asian or Latino peers.

Since 2002, the number of African American men killed on the streets of Oakland has nearly matched the number who graduated from its high schools ready to attend a state university.

Castlemont was no refuge.

Three weeks earlier, a 15-year-old girl had been shot and injured outside a youth center next to the school. Two days after that, the school was locked down after gunshots from a car driving by rang out just before 3 p.m. The bullets missed the students the shooters targeted, but left three holes in the school's front doors.

Two days later, a 22-year-old man was killed in a midafternoon shooting three blocks away. Nine days after that, an 18-year-old male was killed in another drive-by shooting just half a mile from the school.

Thomas, an easygoing teen with a quick smile, knew he'd made it this far by being not just book smart but street smart, careful about the friends he chose, the places he hung out. Soon he'd be getting out of Oakland, going away to college.

Even so, he understood any of those bullets could have found him instead.

Now, as he walked through the school gates on the way to his first-period math class, he stopped short. Across the quad, a crowd of kids was gathered around a large banner taped to the library wall. Nearby, a table had been set up. On it was a picture.

Thomas braced himself. He hoped it was just a get-well banner for someone.

But as he got closer, he saw the name on the banner. He saw the face on the picture.

Late the night before, his friend and classmate Olajuwon "Tutu" Clayborn had been shot and killed on the steps of his family's home, just 200 feet from the school.

The two teens had been talking and laughing in the library the Friday before. Like Thomas, Olajuwon was 17, an athlete and a member of the honor roll.

Like Thomas, he was a senior set to graduate and go to college.

And like Thomas, he was a young black man in Oakland who seemed to have beaten the odds. Instead, an apparent dispute over a girl had left him dead. The shooter, police believed, was another Castlemont student, another young black man, who had since disappeared. Thomas didn't care what had caused Olajuwon's killing. "I don't even want to know," he said. "He's not here. That's the big fact."

He added his name to the banner on the wall and another event to his crowded year-end calendar: a funeral.

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Echoing statistics of black men

On May 17, Olajuwon was eulogized and buried.

On June 14, Thomas walked across a stage on Castlemont's football field and received his diploma. He was one of 12 African American males in his graduating class.

Olajuwon would have been the 13th, the alleged shooter the 14th.

The fates of the three young black men echo the statistics of so many like them.

From 2002 through the end of 2012, 787 black boys and men in Oakland were victims of homicide. During that same time, just 802 graduated prepared to attend either a California State University or University of California school.

“Over the past 10 years, 787 black boys and men in Oakland were victims of homicide. During that same time, just 802 graduated prepared to attend either a California State University or University of California school.”

In 2009, about 600 African American males started high school in the Oakland school district with Thomas and Olajuwon. Of those, an estimated 80 to 100 graduated college-ready. Another 200 were expected to get their diplomas, but not with UC or CSU admission requirements. Others took the GED, or would continue in adult school. Still others spent time in jail.

During those same four years, 31 Oakland public school students ages 11 to 19 were killed across the city. Most of them were shot and most were African American males.

After seeing these unyielding statistics for Oakland's African American males, the Oakland Unified School District decided it had to do something dramatic to try to change them.

In 2010, it became the first school district in the United States to create a department dedicated to altering the fortunes of black boys.

Through its African American Male Achievement Office, the district has created classes and programs specifically for these young men. Their aim: to help them navigate their lives in and out of school by providing teachers who understand them, mentors who can guide them, disciplinary alternatives to suspension and strategies to make good decisions.

The office's goals are ambitious: double black boys' graduation rate; eliminate the achievement gap between black males and white or Asian peers; reduce suspension and absentee rates; and cut incarceration rates in half. There are three years left in a five-year plan to get there. Success, if it comes, will cost at least $2 million per year, with most of that funding from foundations and grants.

The effort has drawn vocal support from the Obama administration, but some of its actions have spurred controversy, including the hiring of noncertified teachers and the sponsorship of a charter school populated solely by black boys.

Junious Williams of the Urban Strategies Council, an Oakland nonprofit that partnered with the district to launch the initiative in 2010, says such an approach was long overdue.

"I think the scope (of previous efforts) has not been nearly sufficient when we analyze how long we've let these problems linger," he said. "What is most significant is you now have one of the major public institutions in the community ... having courageous conversations about race."

So far, suspension rates for black males in the district are down and grades are up for those participating in the program.

For some families, such success can't come soon enough. And for some young black males, like Olajuwon, it's already too late.

The last photograph

It's a photograph Yolanda Christopher treasures. Taken in her living room, it shows a tall young man in dreadlocks modeling a new white suit. The pants are bunched up over the tops of his shoes. They need to be hemmed before prom just five days away.

It's the last picture Christopher took of her youngest son, Olajuwon.

Hours later, he stumbled through her front door and collapsed just a few feet from where she had snapped his picture.

"They flipped him over, and he had a hole in his chest," Christopher recalls.

He died on the way to the hospital, slumping against his older brother's shoulder as he took his last breath on May 5.

Police investigators have told Christopher that there isn't enough evidence to make an arrest. No witnesses have come forward. In East Oakland, they rarely do, fearful that doing so will bring retaliation.

Olajuwon's homicide in May was Oakland's 34th of 2013; by the third weekend of August, there were 30 more.

Shootings and homicides are common in the neighborhood where Olajuwon was raised by his single mother.

Olajuwon's 27-year-old brother has been shot three different times.

Olajuwon's mom sent him to school in Berkeley, away from the negative influences of his neighborhood, but still he had wavered at times. He wasn't always the best student in Berkeley, where he attended the comprehensive high school freshman and sophomore years and then Berkeley Technology Academy, a continuation school, his junior year.

Planning a move to Gilroy

But when he arrived at Castlemont for his senior year, he was determined and focused. He earned a 3.2 grade point average and played shooting guard on the basketball team.

He dreamed of playing professionally, like Hakeem Olajuwon, the NBA superstar for whom he was named.

“I was just waiting for him to graduate and we were all going to move out.”

Yolanda Christopher, lost her son, Olajuwon "Tutu" Clayborn, to gun violence in Oakland.

"Olajuwon was not somebody on your radar to get killed," said Castlemont Principal John Lynch. "There are a lot of great kids that get killed."

Christopher knew the streets could swallow a black boy. She'd always kept close tabs on her son.

She took him to basketball tournaments. She sat at the kitchen window to watch for him as he walked home from school. She propped up his college dreams.

After he graduated, Olajuwon planned to move to Gilroy to study and play basketball at Gavilan Community College, taking his mom with him.

"I was just waiting for him to graduate, and we were all going to move out," Christopher said. "He told me he was going to make the pros to help me up and out of Oakland."

It was too dangerous there, something the mother and son often talked about, sometimes after nearby gunshots sent them ducking under a table.

"I would tell him, 'Mama is not supposed to bury you. You are supposed to bury your mama,' " she said. "I'm just trying to figure out, why him?"

Trying to 'stay safe'

Michael Scott has another picture of Olajuwon. It sits above his desk at Castlemont High in his small office at the back of a portable building, where the 50-year-old helps students find jobs, apply to college, and get counseling or other services they need to stay on track.

It's the 17-year-old's senior portrait - a picture of him in a purple cap and gown.

As Castlemont's community school coordinator, Scott, who grew up a few blocks away, plays many roles: mentor, teacher, adviser.

While not officially part of the African American Male Achievement Office, he too pays particular attention to young black men, helping them focus on their future.

Like every teacher in Oakland's schools, he's battling stubborn statistics.

Black boys in Oakland are disproportionately fatherless. They are more likely than other youth to be poor, in need of consistent health care and living in violent flatland neighborhoods with at least twice the ratio of liquor stores as their hillside peers' neighborhoods, according to the Alameda County Health Department.

Homicide is by far the leading cause of death for African American males ages 15 to 34 in Oakland, as it is nationwide.

Scott thought Olajuwon would beat those odds. He checked in with him regularly to make sure he had everything in place to get to graduation day.

The two met weekly in Scott's African American men's circle, a group of a dozen or so students who gathered to talk about school and struggles.

For young black men, Scott says, fear is a constant: the fear others have of them; the fear they have of ending up a casualty like Olajuwon.

"This society is conditioned to be afraid of young black men," he said. "It does every bit of damage you might imagine."

Store owners watch them closely. On the street, women pull their purses closer when they approach. Even their teachers fear them, Scott says.

People who don't know better often mistake their street-smart survival skills, their uniform of sagging pants and a scowl, for malice.

They live by rules they didn't make: Watch your back. Be aware of your surroundings. Don't venture beyond the invisible borders where you belong.

When school lets out on Friday afternoons, they tell each other, "Stay safe," rather than "See you Monday."

Bittersweet graduation

Tears rolled down Thomas' cheeks as he hugged his aunt. On the same field where he had played football and run track for the Castlemont Knights, he had just crossed a stage to pick up his high school diploma. The broad-shouldered young man with the equally broad smile had graduated.

The ceremony had been joyful but bittersweet. Every speaker had mentioned Olajuwon. Several times the celebration paused as dozens of people chanted his nickname, "Tutu," holding up two fingers on each hand.

Christopher wore her son's cap and gown to the ceremony. She was greeted by applause and hugs and seated on stage among the speakers and officials.

"He's in a better place," Christopher had said. "But the better place should have been right here in Oakland with me."

“They don't know what it's like to have good grades, have someone congratulate them. They don't even think they'll get out of Oakland.”

Thomas Logwood

For Thomas, the day was a reminder of his own hard-earned survival. "Growing up here, you see a lot of negativity," he said. "People succumb to negatives."

He had refused to do that.

Entering a different world

Born in Oakland, he'd bounced around to various addresses with his parents until age 5. That's when his grandmother took him and two older siblings in and raised them. Three uncles acted as mentors, always pushing him to work hard, to get an education.

"They told me school was the way out of the 'hood, basically," he said.

He competed in baseball, wrestling, track and football. He studied, earning a perfect 100 percent on his senior class project and graduating with honors. And six days before he attended Olajuwon's funeral, he was crowned king of his senior prom.

He chose friends wisely and stays friendly with everyone - even former schoolmates who now hang out on street corners.

"They grow up with a hard life," he said. "They don't know what it's like to have good grades, have someone congratulate them. They don't even think they'll get out of Oakland. They don't believe they can do better."

Thomas believes he can. He plans to attend UC Santa Cruz next month. He hasn't picked a major, but he's looking forward to seeing a different world.

"Oakland's not the place for me or this next part of my life," he said.

In Oakland, school and city officials hope the programs they are offering African American males will provide the kinds of role models and encouragement that Thomas was lucky enough to have. They want to replace fear with hope. They want to teach black boys to believe in themselves and to believe they have a future.

And they want to prevent more funerals.

"When you look back, you think, 'I'm glad I made it,' " Thomas said, shaking his head. "It's sad we have to hope to live to walk the stage."